


Celebration

by ladyhoneydarlinglove



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: DOTO spoilers, Fluff, Gen, Gift Fic, M/M, Post DotO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 19:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14268204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyhoneydarlinglove/pseuds/ladyhoneydarlinglove
Summary: When Emily celebrates her 27th birthday, the former Outsider realizes he's never had one.





	Celebration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apocryphic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocryphic/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Zi!

In the year 1852, Emily Kaldwin did not celebrate her birthday. It came only a few weeks after her return from Karnaca and the reclamation of her throne; she’d been far too busy focusing on recovery efforts in Dunwall, determined to obliterate any remaining vestiges of Delilah’s wicked reign. The 2nd day in the Month of Rain came and went without so much as a peep, and it would be some months before Emily realized she’d even had a birthday at all, and that in the coming Month of Rain she would actually be turning twenty-seven, not twenty-six as she’d previously thought.

Emily was not overly keen on celebrating her 27th birthday either, believing it to be a frivolous event whose resources could be spent much better elsewhere. But by the beginning of the year 1853, the nobility of Gristol had recovered enough from the shock of Delilah’s coup that they were now expecting things in the Royal Court to be run as normally as they ever could be, and that meant a lavish birthday celebration for their beloved Empress. Initially Emily turned down all ideas flat, unwilling to entertain the notion of an expense solely for her benefit and not that of her subjects, but Gristol nobility are nothing if not tenacious. Unable to appeal to her sense of vanity, they instead targeted her compassion, insisting that a party was never truly a waste of resources because parties were fun, lively affairs that brought joy to so many people, and isn’t that what you’ve been saying for months, dear Empress? That Dunwall needs something to lift its spirits and imbue some life back into its old withered veins? A party would be just the thing for that, surely.

And, after several tense meetings and more than a few shouting matches, Emily began to relent under the onslaught. Perhaps a birthday party would be good for the city’s morale. Festivities were so rare in Dunwall since Delilah’s coup, and even the year’s Fugue Feast had been downtrodden, dull and listless, bitter memories of the previous year still too sharp on the back of the tongue. And the citizens of Dunwall had worked tirelessly over the past year on restoration efforts, wearing themselves down to muscle and bone in order to banish all remnants of Delilah’s wickedness from their midst. They could, Emily supposed, do with some cheer.

So it was decided. Emily Kaldwin, Empress of the Isles, First of her Name, would hold a lavish celebration for her twenty-seventh birthday, a festivity so grand it would be surely be talked of for years to come. The nobility had been absolutely delighted.

Had been.

“You know, there are easier ways to piss people off,” the Royal Archivist comments lightly from his place next to the Empress as they walk through a crowd of Dunwall citizens. He’s unable to hide his amusement as he watches Lord and Lady Germain administer free elixirs and tonics to a hoard of scraggly dock workers, fake smile plastered onto their faces, cracking at the edges.

“Easier, certainly. But not nearly as much fun.” Emily smirks. “In my defense, all they said was that they wanted a celebration. They never gave me any specifics as to what kind, other than that it be in the name of my birthday.”

“I’m sure they believed you would follow convention.”

“Me? Follow convention? How scandalous!” Emily laughs, high and bright, ringing like Serkonan chimes on the wind. A young boy standing near them stares up at her as though admiring the moon, the stars. He holds a small bouquet of slightly wilted crocus in his pudgy hands, and offers her a single purple bloom with trembling fingers. Emily kneels down and plucks it delicately from his grasp, her smile bright, blinding as she thanks him and tucks the crocus into the already overwhelming crown of flowers wreathing her head. The boy’s eyes grow wide as runes before he scampers away, babbling excitedly for his father.

“Besides,” Emily continues, “Look at how happy everyone is. I think that’s much better than an ostentatious celebration just for myself, wouldn’t you agree?”

The Royal Archivist looks around, eyes lingering on the happy people surrounding them. He can seldom recall seeing Dunwall in higher spirits than it is now, dreary cobblestone streets alive with dancing, singing, merriment. Colorful streamers line every building and kites in the shapes of marine creatures flutter gently in the sea breeze. The street lamps shine with hues of purples and greens and blues, casting waves of light over crowds, even in the middle of the day. Stalls selling food and flowers and trinkets line every walkway, and dotted throughout them are tents emblazoned with the royal crest, where charities are bestowed upon the well-deserving citizens. Medicine, hot meals, burial services, vermin eradication—whatever Emily thinks her people need, for this one day, they shall have.

“I would,” he answers after a moment. “Well done, Empress.”

A smile plays at the edges of her lips as Emily bends at the waist in a small bow. “Your praise means much to me, Royal Archivist,” she says, laughing when he can’t help but roll his eyes at her. Fondness and exasperation sit at opposing ends of the emotional spectrum, yet he’s learned that they very often walk hand in hand, especially where Emily is concerned. “But I’m afraid I shall have to leave you with someone else for the moment. And look, here comes the perfect candidate now.”

She gestures, and he follows the movement until his gaze lands on a familiar, broad shouldered figure walking towards them, the grey strands scattered through his black hair glinting like shiny baubles in the sunlight. “Empress. Royal Archivist.” Corvo inclines his head in greeting. He and Emily exchange a few words before she departs, and then it is just the two of them, and the crowd of people on all sides.

“Have you eaten yet today?” Corvo asks.

“I had breakfast,” he answers.

Corvo raises an eyebrow. “Anything else?” he prompts, and heat floods his cheeks, quite against his will. Blushing remains a strange and horribly aggravating construct; he will master it, at some point.

“No,” he admits, sheepish.

“Then let’s get something to eat now,” Corvo suggests, and leads him towards one of the many food stalls lining the streets. The one Corvo picks serves pasties, steaming hot, filled with meat or cheese or potatoes. Serkonan spices dance over his tongue when he takes a bite, and if he closes his eyes for a moment, he can pretend he is back in the sunny warmth of Karnaca, the sweet salty brine of sea water lingering in the air.

“So what do you think of the Empress’ choice of festivities?” he asks Corvo as they walk along the streets, food in hand.

Corvo chuckles, low and deep. “Do you know, Jessamine wanted to throw a birthday celebration like this for years when she was Empress? But there were never enough funds to pull it off in the treasury, and the nobility would never have agreed to it in any case.” A smile catches at the corners of Corvo’s mouth, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes in a manner that never fails to make his now beating heart do a spectacular array of acrobatics inside his chest. “I’m happy to see Emily found a way to pull it off.”

They stop in front of a stall selling fruit; Corvo purchases an apple for himself, a pear for his companion. “So should we plan for an equally excessive celebration when your next birthday comes?” he asks.

Corvo snorts loudly. “Outsider’s Eyes, no. I hate parties, you know that. A nice meal, finished with some Serkonan cigars and spiced rum. That’s as extravagant as I ever get for my birthday, if I celebrate at all.”

He hums. “I suppose I too would be loathe to remind myself of mortality were I your age,” he says, smiling impishly at the dirty look Corvo shoots him. He doesn’t tease often—there’s too much nuance to it, too much finesse he still hasn’t fully mastered—but as with most things, Corvo makes it easier. Safer. Corvo affords him a place to try the new and unexpected, and will be there to offer a hand if he stumbles, catch him if he falls.

“You don’t get to say that when you still have a good four thousand years on me,” Corvo retorts.

“Perhaps. But you wear your age more than I do.”

Corvo snorts. “Ass,” he mutters, and a laugh escapes him, rising up from the pits of his belly, cheerful and full.

They pass by a flower stand where a young girl stares wistfully at a rainbow of chrysanthemums; she counts the coins she holds in her palm, her head drooping sadly. So he buys her a bouquet full of every color they have; the smile she gives him in return shines bright as the moon on the open sea. “What about you?” Corvo asks as they watch her skip away into the crowd. “What horribly garish display should we plan for your birthday?”

He blinks. “I don’t have a birthday,” he answers.

Corvo frowns. “Not even from before?” he asks.

“Not that I remember. Street urchins don’t get the luxury of celebrating birthdays.” He brings a hand up, tracing the outline of a faint scar against his neck, only visible if one knew to look. “I suppose if you really wanted we could celebrate the day of my sacrifice, but that might be rather morbid.”

A grimace passes over Corvo’s face. “Exceedingly morbid,” he agrees.

They continue to walk, strolling away from the main crowd and making their way slowly to the bank of the Wrenhaven. Later tonight there will be a lantern lighting ceremony, and the sky will fill with a hundred thousand more twinkling lights. For now it is calm and steady as ever, dinghys and river barges rolling smoothly with the current. They stroll until they reach a quiet spot devoid of other bodies, and there they take a minute to lean against the railing and enjoy the view, basking in the warm rays of the autumn sun, and the tangy smell of the salt breeze.

“What about the day of your rebirth?” Corvo asks suddenly.

He frowns. “What about it?” he replies, confused.

“What if we celebrated that as a birthday? Much less morbid than celebrating a day you died.”

“Oh.” He blinks, no less confused. “I suppose we could,” he answers after a moment. “But why bother? What would be the point?”

Corvo shrugs. “For fun,” he says. “Because we can.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, in a softer tone, “I know you still hold a lot of bad memories from your connection to the Void. So maybe the more nice ones we make now, the more we can drown those old ones out.”

“…I see.” He has known for years that Corvo is ultimately a man of compassion, of mercy, of kindness, but to have all those intentions directed toward himself leaves him blown away, footing lost on a ship rolling along in a storm. He doesn’t answer—can’t answer—right away, swallowing around the heavy lump in his throat that always appears whenever he feels too much. Instead, he trains his gaze away from Corvo, out at where the Wrenhaven bends to meet the harbor. He sees a ship rolling into the bay in the distance, and watches its sails flutter in the wind for several long, quiet moments before his voice returns.

“What would we do?” he asks, whisper soft.

Next to him, Corvo shifts, until their sides brush together. There’s a pause, and then Corvo reaches over, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Whatever you want,” Corvo answers, and when he looks, a smile graces Corvo’s face, crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he rather thinks that really, all he could ever want is already right here.


End file.
